darling, it's only thunder
by SamisforSamurai
Summary: "For god's sake, the noise! Wasn't dying supposed to be a quiet affair?" A century after the war and the thunder still wakes Francis in the middle of the night, leaving him gasping for breath and chilled to his core. Arthur finds out about this the hard way.


It had only ever been French land, really, that was torn up by the Germans. While there were some skirmishes on Germany's side, and some fights in Belgian territory, most battles—nearing 95%—had taken place in France.

(One hundred years later, he was still finding old shells in the land. There had been risks, for years, of farmers plowing over a mine that had never gone off during the war.)

By population, 4.3% of him had been killed. Of the allies, he'd provided a fourth of the casualties.

Francis Bonnefoy, to put it midly, had hated the Great War.

And, no, he hadn't felt more than a dull ache on him during the battles (always on his eastern side, on the border of him, Germany, and Belguim), but he knew what it represented, knew that his men were dying, knew that he would have lost his foot to trenchfoot if he wasn't a Nation, knew that cannon fire could have killed him, blowing a hole that size in his belly. No matter the wound, no matter the representative part of him that was prickling, aching, during the war, he hadn't been too affected. More than anything, they were mild nuisances in trying to hold his gun steady.

Even the more drastic wounds, the ones that had left scars to this day, a century old, some of them, had been a bearable sort of pain—the sort Nations always ended up getting at some point or another.

And Francis, France, could deal with pain. Nations could all deal with pain. It was practically what they were designed for, to feel the pain of their people and work to make their people comfortable instead—later, to voice the pains of the people to the government, who listened to them sometimes. No, what had bothered him most, more than the wounds he was getting but not keeping, more than the aches he was feeling but not responsible for, was the noise.

The noise.

Cannons, tanks, mines, aircraft, horses, machine-gun fire—

For god's sake, wasn't dying supposed to be a quiet affair?

The Great War had been years ago, though.

A century. One hundred years. Older than some nations these days.

But one hundred years was a long time to live with the memories. And, to this day, there was nothing that made him more anxious and irritable than the dull roar or something, something unknown, far off in the distance.

Aircraft overhead, loud motorcycles, and especially loud thunderstorms, were quite likely to send the Frenchman into a panic.

Usually it was short, over quickly, little more than a jolt. Occasionally it led to a bumped head or a broken dish when a plane or a motorcycle went by. But those were over quickly, and aside from a concerned "Are you alright?" coming from a guest if he had company (or a knowing look, if it were Germany or Russia or Britain), he was generally fine within a few minutes.

(Even the shaky hands settled in under ten, usually.)

But, the problem with thunderstorms was that they weren't over quickly.

They were loud and shook the walls and, while he could prepare for them and put earplugs in or headphones on sometimes before they came, that wasn't always the case.

Sometimes they'd come in the dead of night, and his dreams would turn shaky to match the ambiance, and, without fail, he'd end up with his heart stopping in his chest and waking with a start to thunder outside his house.

Those nights, he didn't really have the strength to find ear-plugs, and he was frozen in place regardless, feeling as if the house would collapse around him and he'd end up crushed underneath the roof.

When he had to sit through an entire storm in the dead of night without anything to muffle the noise but his own hands, the anxiety attack tended to last even longer than the storm.

Safe to say, he never really got sleep after an attack.

But, it happened rarely enough (maybe four or five times a year) that it never really affected his life. There would be a few sleepless nights, a few days afterwards where he'd be pale and shaky and generally looked like a mess, but in the hundred years afterwards (not counting the weeks of restless anxiety that most nations that had participated in the Great War had felt), it had never interfered with his life.

Not until the night a storm rolled in while he was sleeping next to Arthur, that was.

—-

Looking back, Francis really should have paid more attention when Arthur watched the weather channel. It was so boring, though, that Francis rarely bothered to check it on his own time, and he wrinkled his nose whenever Arthur insisted on checking it before they went out.

After all, Francis lived in a generally-sunny area of France (a location chosen in the 20s, actually) and he really didn't have to worry about storms too often. There were a few every month, yes, but he was pretty well prepared for them.

Even when Arthur was over during a storm, Francis could keep hold of himself fairly well. Occasionally he'd have to set down whatever he was drinking to keep from spilling any on himself. Occasionally he'd have to make a quick trip to the restroom and cover his ears for a while and splash his face to make him look less pale. Occasionally he'd have to feign an illness so he could go lie down somewhere so he wouldn't fall over. But, on the whole, it wasn't too bad.

But, that day, he hadn't paid attention even when Arthur idly mentioned that a storm was brewing for that night.

He'd gone the entire day, aimlessly flitting about to entertain his Arthur, his boyfriend, his lover. The day had been spent over tea and books and cuddling, Arthur wrinkling his nose at the kisses Francis left on his collarbone even as he returned equally sweet kisses to Francis's shoulder.

It had been a very nice day.

(Francis, therefore, wasn't at all worried about flash backs or anxiety attacks or memories of a time, a century ago, when he had been put through hell and back.

After all, it was at at time when he still hated Arthur (to some extent).

By and large, he should have been able to fight off his fear.

Arthur's Blitz, after all, had been just about as bad, and that had been with civilians. Francis should have been able to fight off these feelings, to fight off this lingering anxiety. But he was too inexperienced to do it on his own, too cowardly to purposefully try to fight off his attacks as they were coming, and too stubborn to see a therapist.)

When Francis retired to bed with Arthur in tow, they'd simply tucked into each other's arms and gotten comfortable. Sleep had come easily, and considering they were in bed by eleven and the storm hadn't rolled in until two, Francis and Arthur had both been sleeping peacefully, a good part through the REM cycle.

And then, thunder.

It started out low in the distance, like it always did. It took a few minutes to really affect Francis's dreams, but when it did, it twisted what had been a peaceful, if odd, dream about owning a cooking show, into a detailed memory of trench warfare.

It wasn't until the thunder got dangerously close that Francis woke, eyes snapping open as his upper body shot forward.

His head reeled as he learned to separate the dream from reality, but he'd never been good at pulling things like that apart, and when the next burst of thunder came, his breath hitched, warning him that he was starting to breathe too quickly.

It was then that he heard Arthur stir beside him, and he realized he wasn't alone.

While that sentiment was comforting to some, for Francis, all it meant was that he had to be absolutely silent otherwise Arthur would be alerted. And the shame of still having anxiety attacks over thunderstorms was enough to make him want to keep quiet on more than one level.

But, unbeknownst to Francis, keeping quiet wasn't the most important part. As it turned out, the sound of thunder was loud enough to drown out most of Francis's gasping for breath and his occasional pained moan.

It was motion that he should have been cautious about.

Because while he could be at least fairly quiet during all this, he tended to have knee-jerk (literally) reactions to every roar of thunder. Even if he'd known to limit his motion, he likely would have been unable to—it was simply his reaction to fearful circumstances. In fight or flight reactions, his instinct was to run, and even when he was frozen, he had a tendency to shake.

After a particularly harsh crash of thunder, Francis made a grab for the pillow he'd been using and clutched it between his knees and chest, burying his face in it.

Evidently the motion had startled Arthur awake (or perhaps Francis had accidentally touched Arthur in his haste to get it), and soon a cool hand was resting against Francis's back, able to feel just how much Francis was hyperventilating. The hand moved up and down his spine, then, and the body attached to it moved closer.

The closeness nearly made Francis jump out of his skin.

It certainly startled him enough to move his face away from the pillow, though considering he looked up at Arthur just as lightning flashed and illuminated the room with startling shadows, it wasn't a particularly comforting sight.

Not to mention Arthur got an eyeful of just how much of a mess Francis looked.

Considering the frenchman spent at least an hour every morning getting ready and kept a composure so well that he scarcely blushed (and Arthur had certainly tried to break that composure, more than once), to see him so out of sorts was especially jarring.

The frightened look on his face, illuminated by a half second's flash of lightning, would likely stay with Arthur for months. Perhaps longer.

"Francis?" Arthur finally asked, tentatively placing a hand on the other's shoulder. From there, it was almost more obvious how bad the hyperventilation was getting, and Arthur wasn't sure if it was the lighting or if Francis really was getting that pale. "Snap out of it," he started to say, but that was about when he noticed the cold sweat Francis was breaking out in, and the tears that had pooled in his eyes.

Of course Francis would snap out of it if he could. Obviously he couldn't, so Arthur shook off any other unhelpful advice he'd been about to give.

Not sure whether to leave him alone or hold on, Arthur settled for a slightly safer option, draping the over-blanket over his lover's shoulders.

It didn't seem to help much, but maybe it would do something for that cold sweat. At any rate, Francis seemed to be a little more aware of his surroundings, because now he willingly looked Arthur in the eye.

Shortly afterwards, he'd managed to get Francis in a position where he wouldn't likely hurt himself by kicking the footboard or falling off the bed. His breathing hadn't evened out yet, though it wasn't so bad that Arthur was afraid he'd pass out.

It was right about then that the Brit noticed the odd manner Francis was holding his head. Before then, he'd assumed that Francis had a headache or was simply holding his head, but now…

"It's how loud the storm is, isn't it," Arthur mused, then shifted to sit behind him. He took a deep breath, then put his own ears over Francis's. He was sure it didn't help that much more, but Francis seemed to relax, ever so slightly.

Half an hour passed like that, and as the storm ended, so did the attack. At least, it had ended enough that Francis was reasonably capable of speech, unlike the panicked French phrases he'd heard scattered throughout the attack. His breathing had calmed to a normal speed by now, too, and that meant his pulse was finally becoming more normal, but it was still elevated just a bit. At least he wasn't at risk for a heart-attack anymore, Arthur mused, though obviously didn't express it aloud.

Admittedly Arthur was still in the dark about what the attack had been over, but the things Francis had said, however difficult to understand, had brought back memories dating back a century.

Once he made the connection, Arthur's face immediately softened.

The cold sweat had slowly shifted to shivers, and the blanket Arthur had put on Francis was pulled tighter around him to shield him from the cold air, though most of the cold had come from within him.

Seeing that his boyfriend was still definitely in need of some care, Arthur gently guided him to lie back, pulling the rest of the covers over him.

Once he was sure Francis was comfortable, the Brit laid down next to him and pulled him into a hug—much more affectionate than usual, and not just because Arthur had initiated it for once.

"It was a century ago just recently, wasn't it?" Arthur asked softly, reaching one hand up to gently—oh so gently—run his fingers through his lover's hair.

Francis froze, muscles tensing as if he were afraid of a physical blow. Arthur frowned. But, it seemed to have answered his question.

"Go ahead. Laugh," Francis muttered, the English coming off as rather difficult to understand. More than anything, it sounded like the frenchman needed a glass of water and some good night's sleep.

Arthur, however, needed an explanation. "Why would I laugh? You just had a panic attack at three AM," he said, voice tight as he checked with the alarm clock. Well, it was just short of three still, but it counted, didn't it? "I'm worried. Anyone would be worried."

Francis closed his eyes, letting out a tired sigh. "…You got past the memories from the Blitz by the nineties. Here I am, still crying in the middle of the night over a thunderstorm because of … You know." He made a vague gesture to wave it off. "It's pathetic, isn't it?"

For all Arthur's character defects (and to be sure, the list was long), there was none he thought was bad enough to deserve that sort of reaction. He wasn't such a bad boyfriend—such a bad person—that Francis would expect that… was he?

Francis rolled over onto his other side, not wanting to look at Arthur.

Deciding he'd have none of that, Arthur firmly placed his hand on Francis's shoulder. "Francis. Honestly ask yourself—would I ever judge you for that? I've never once laughed at you for crying—past that one time, but I don't think it counts since I learned never to do it again."

"What are you talking about?" Francis asked, wiping his eyes with the blanket. "I remember none of that."

"I don't expect you would. It was centuries ago. You got grass stains on your tunic, which was a gift from your leader at the time. You ended up crying and I laughed at you, but I…" Arthur guiltily looked away. "I never did it again because you got mad at me. I learned not to do it again after that. you were right to get angry. It's awful to laugh at someone for crying."

Francis vaguely, vaguely, remembered wrestling a pint sized Arthur for something he'd stolen, and that he'd gotten quite a scolding for grass stains later, but… Had that really been the only time Arthur had laughed at him for crying?

He was pretty sure it was an exaggeration, but still, it did seem pretty rare. Arthur had been there for him when he needed it, and that he hadn't realized that earlier made Francis feel pretty awful—ungrateful, mostly.

"Your lack of response is quite reassuring, I must say," Arthur quipped before sighing and lying next to him, practically spooning him. "Have I really been that bad at showing you how I feel?"

The Brit's voice had been a whisper, and Francis felt a shiver run down his spine—finally, one that wasn't from a cold sweat.

"…Non," Francis finally replied, settling back against him with a sigh. "You haven't. Some things are hard to be logical about though, non?"

Arthur seemed to take that pretty well, soon after pressing a soft kiss against his lover's neck. "I understand, I think. Try to talk to me next time though, won't you?"

Francis managed a watery smile as he turned his head to look at him. "I'll do my best. Much more, I cannot say."

As the world outside got quieter, the pitter-patter of leftover rain from the room finally stopping, Arthur pulled Francis closer, kissing his shoulder almost possessively. "That's all I want," he said lightly, arms locked tight around his boyfriend's waist. "That's all I want…"

Silence again reigned in the night, and Francis felt his pulse slowly returning to normal, Arthur's warm, solid presence behind him a constant reassurance.

And, for the first time since before the Great War, Francis fell back asleep after a thunderstorm.


End file.
